I have a ear, but I do not have a pair ofeyes, yet i stalk. I am often seen in pieces, and sometimes whole.

I resemble a fork, but I do not puncture. You can sweep with me.

The flying of a golf ball along a field, The propulsion of a machine with four wheels, The will to turn your dreams into something real.

Down I go, where darkness dwells, To hold a wanderer amidst the swells. No roots have I, yet firmly stay, Preventing journeys from drifting away.

I am made of metal, a cold embrace. I speak of authority, leaving little space. I have a ratchet's tongue, a clicking sound I make. Freedom's departure is often my wake.